


Dreams

by DktrAgonizer



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Multi, Nightmares, POV Second Person, allusions to childhood abuse but nothing explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-04 10:53:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6655132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DktrAgonizer/pseuds/DktrAgonizer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Edward's dreams aren't usually pleasant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreams

The dreams aren’t always pleasant.

And in fact, they usually aren’t. They never are right after a heist or the implementation of a trap - particularly not if they hadn’t gone well. Your mind always insists on running through the scenarios of failure; less than ideal events get replayed over and over until you swear the pain of the gauntleted fist in your sternum is _real_ and it wakes you up. Those bookend everything else, all the other possibilities, the permutations, every single way in which it could have gone worse (or wrong at all). Your henchmen’s betrayals, deaths, or buffoonish ignorance allowing something devastating to occur to you, or to Diedre, or to Nina, or to Jonathan. Your capture, and the subsequent incarceration in Arkham (solitary, it’s always solitary). Your death.

But sometimes, your mind doesn’t stick to the could-have-been present and the could-be future. Sometimes it takes you back to the past, when you were small, scared, and more alone than ever. A dark room, scattered with bits and pieces of various projects. A tall figure towering over you, dark and menacing, and god, _god_ but the stink of alcohol on his breath is always so pungent. So _real._

These are more uncommon than everything, but they stick with you the longest. It hurts in such an upsetting, visceral way that the rest of the dreams never can, not even when you’re cradling the bodies of one of your partners in your arms. It’s the voice, you think; it’s the way the words echo in your ears even upon waking. _Stupid. Liar. Cheater. Good for nothing._ You can never fight back, not with words when the dreams keep you mute, and not with your fists, because you’re always so _small_ and you don’t know how.

You cry out in your sleep sometimes, you know you do. Usually there’s somebody else with you, somebody to pull you into their arms and whisper assurances and offer an ear, a shoulder. Usually, it’s the girls. Diedre and Nina hear about the first type of nightmares. You can never bring yourself to tell them about the second type, the ones where it’s always, _always_ your father, because your mother is as absent in your dreams as she was in your life. They know about your past - just a little bit, from stories you’ve told them - but not the whole thing. Never the whole thing. You don’t think you want them to know.

They don’t get nightmares, not in the way you get them. Diedre used to dream about school, about all the stress she endured during it before she met Nina and they skipped town to start again in Gotham. They both tend to dream about mundane things now, and for that, you envy them. (But there are occasions, of course, where you have to be there for one or for both of them, and it feels nice to be the one on the comforting side for a change).

Lately you’ve found yourself in Jonathan’s bed more and more often (and not without a great deal of reluctance on his part). You felt ashamed the first time you dreamed of your father there, the first time you woke up to Jonathan’s face over yours and for a split second didn’t see _his_ face at all. You’d cried out, one arm instinctively raising up to shield your face - and your cheeks burned under his careful, curious scrutiny. 

But he hadn’t asked. The question burned behind his lips, you could _see_ it, but he’d only run his fingers along your forehead before pulling you forward gently, gently, to press a kiss to your temple. He still doesn’t ask, and sometimes you almost _want_ him to, just so you can finally get it out to somebody. But you can’t, you won’t, and after a time, you half suspect he knows what it’s about anyway - because, just like with the girls, you don’t hesitate to detail the failure dreams. Those are different; they don’t leave you shaken and subdued for hours after.

Jonathan has his own nightmares. He thrashes under the blankets sometimes. After the first time, you’re careful not to wake him up from these; the bruise he’d given you had lasted almost a week. But more occasionally, he cowers, whimpering and moaning, and your heart aches nearly in the same way it does when you go through your own personal brand of mental hell. These it’s safe to wake him up from, and you have to distract him while he calms down (which is easy, because you’re Edward Nygma, you’ve _always_ got something to talk about).

He never asks you about yours, so you never ask him about his. That’s not to say you don’t want to know, but this is one playing field you don’t wish to make uneven. Still, you have to stifle the urge to dig at times, because you’ve no doubt you could figure it out if you put your brilliant mind to it. But you owe him more than that. You’ll tell each other, when - _if_ \- you’re ready.

And maybe… Maybe one day, you’ll get the nerve to seek out your father and deal with him. Maybe then, your mind will have a bit more mercy when you sleep. You’d welcome it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Consider leaving a comment letting me know your thoughts; I'd love to read them!


End file.
